Hardest of Hearts
by Bodaiju92
Summary: The war is over and Panem is healing but how exactly do Katniss and Peeta grow back together when the world has spent the last two years trying to tear them apart? A post-Mockingjay story of how the star-crossed lovers of District 12 finally overcame the odds and forged a life between their nightmarish past and a hopeful future leading up the Epilogue.


**Chapter One**

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It is mid-afternoon before I wake to the sound of my own screaming. Despite the daylight outside, my room remains dark and I curl my legs up and under my chin as I desperately gulp down air, trying to calm myself down. Even with the windows wide open the air still smells of roses and I almost gag. This is not my first nightmare since returning home but it must be the worst because although I never witnessed the bombing of District 12, I still dream of fields on fire and ash raining down from the sky in amazing detail. Even with my hands pressed hard against my ears, I can still hear the screams of dying children. I only just make it to the bathroom in time before I vomit; heaving up last night's supper until there is nothing left but bile and tears have sprung to my eyes.

Normally when this happens, my first instinct is to find Peeta but I can't because he isn't here, not in this house anyway. He lives only across the street but for all the good it is doing us, he may as well be living on the Moon. Somehow, I manage to push myself away from the toilet and to the sink, where I rinse my mouth out with water and try to pull myself together.

Life in District 12 is far from how it used to be but the few hundred people who returned here have worked hard to rebuild their lives. The Victor's Village is the only original part of the District left and it is here, with Peeta on one side and Haymitch on the other, that I continue to live. Greasy Sae comes in daily to make sure I'm fed but I still haven't worked out whether she does this out of kindness or because the Capitol is paying her. Something tells me it would be too crass, even for me, to ask her outright so I settle for the hot bowls of stew and broth and try not to complain because at least I have a roof over my head, unlike most of my neighbors.

Looking at myself in the mirror doesn't give me much hope. My skin is still a macabre patchwork across my body. The skin grafts are healing slowly because I thrash around in my sleep so often and keep bursting the seams apart. I wash and dress in an attempt to look part-way normal, braiding my hair over one shoulder and even going so far as to pinch my cheeks in a last-ditch attempt to add colour to my greying palate. Even like this, I look positively deathly. Cinna wouldn't approve, so for his sake I try to smile at my own reflection. I haven't used these facial muscles in a long time and it takes an effort to work the stiffness from them. Even to myself, my expression looks forced.

Thinking of Cinna after such a long time brings fresh tears to my eyes but I scrub at them angrily with the back of my hand. I had told him, before the Quarter Quell that if I caught him crying I would kill him right there and then. I would be the world's biggest hypocrite if I cried now. Especially since looks have never mattered that much to me.

I take a shawl I wasn't aware of ever owning from the back of my bathroom door and pull it around my shoulders because despite my warm bath and fresh clothing, I am cold from the inside-out.

My stomach is still churning so I decide not to attempt breakfast just yet and instead boil water and soak mint leaves in a cup. The heat is relaxing on my hands as I clamp it tight to my chest and the mint tastes sharp on my tongue. I manage to keep it down which is an achievement in itself. My thoughts turn to my mother, who resides in District 4 now, working in a hospital trying to piece her own life back together. The old Katniss would probably condemn her for leaving me alone like this, but now I can understand. District 12 holds too many awful memories and some people just aren't equipped to deal with them. For both our sake, I think it was best that she decided not to come back. Her face would only remind me of Prim anyway.

I curl my fingers tighter around the steaming cup in my hands and stare out of the window above the sink and where Buttercup is sleeping. The weather is grey but it's not raining and I briefly contemplate going hunting just so I can say I made an effort. But I don't move, because hunting seems to have lost its point and besides, without Gale, it's not quite as much fun. Apparently, Greasy Sae sees him on the television sometimes but I haven't tried looking. I don't even know what Gale's new job entails.

I'm still lost in my grief when Peeta puts in an unexpected appearance. I only acknowledge his presence at all because the smell of warm bread fills my kitchen enough to interrupt my thoughts. It is not unheard of for Peeta, or even Haymitch, to wander into my house uninvited but visits from Peeta are becoming few and far between these days as he tries to mend from the Tracker Jacker venom. Our relationship is still healing, is strained in places where his memories have not yet returned to normal. Doctors on the telephone tell me to be patient, that I can't expect too much too fast and although I have agreed to follow their advice I am so certain that the old Peeta is still fighting to come back to me that it's all I can do not to push him. But I don't, because the thought of it going the other way, back to when he was intent on killing me, is too unbearable. His aggressive outbursts have almost gone now though and the the freshest memories of me from the war tell him I am no longer a threat. Not for the first time, the guilt of taking Peeta's love for granted settles uncomfortably in my stomach and I long for the boy I knew in the arena; would even turn back time and do it all again if I could think of a way to save him from the Capitol.

On the other hand, Haymitch and I have seemingly patched up our tentative friendship. Perhaps it's because we understand one another, or maybe it's because we both love Peeta, but he's kept me alive all this time even if I haven't liked his method so, although I will never forgive him for choosing me over Peeta in the Quarter Quell, I at least forgive everything else. On the nights when I really can't stand being alone I often end up at his house, watching him drink himself into a stupor, making small talk and watching the fire burn itself out. We never mention the Hunger Games or the war but it's enough to keep us ticking over until the next day, to stop us both going completely crazy.

I drag myself out of my thoughts and turn my attention to Peeta who is settling the loaf of bread on the table, wrapped in a thin brown bag. Although the bakery in town has been rebuilt, Peeta has objected to all suggestions that he should be the one to take it over. I have the feeling that it's the memories of his family keeping him away but I have never voiced this too him because I have no idea what those memories will do to him, if provoked. As far as I am aware, he hasn't even grieved them yet. But, as a distraction more than anything, he still bakes at home and the stains of blue and green on his fingertips tell me he's painting now too. I'm glad to see old habits resurfacing but I'm terrified of seeing the images he must be painting. After the Hunger Games all he painted was the arena, death...and me. I think it's my own image I'm so afraid of seeing this time round because I can only imagine the distorted memories he still has of me and although I wish I understood how to make him better I don't want to see inside his head where the dark places implanted by the Capitol still fight to take over.

His visit surprises me because I have grown accustomed to his absence; although I can't say I enjoyed it. I look at him now, almost back to complete physical health; nose and cheeks turned pink by the coldness outside despite our houses being no more than 30 seconds apart. He must have been debating whether or not to enter for some time. He gives me an awkward smile but it doesn't quite reach his eyes and certainly doesn't hide how tired he looks. Clearly, I am not the only one having nightmares. The selfish part of me wishes that he would open his arms to me like he used to, and let me find comfort in the warm space between them where his heartbeat used to lull me to sleep almost every night on the train. But he doesn't, so I hold myself back.

"Hey," I manage to say instead, taking a sip of mint tea now turned cold because I need to occupy my hands.

I am not good with words, nowhere near as good as Peeta, but right now he isn't speaking at all and the pressure of keeping up friendly appearances is bearing down on me with such a weight I think I might crumble under it. It turns out that everything seems to become a little harder without Peeta on my side; I just seem to stop working when left to my own devices. It's exhausting, trying to survive without him although I can vaguely remember a time before he was even in my life and I got on fine without him. Two Hunger Games and a war later, however, that life seems almost impossible now.

Haymitch insists that if I want Peeta to heal, I have to put the work in; that this time it's Peeta who needs me, not the other way round. He doesn't have to remind me that I will never stop owing him. But I don't want to help Peeta out of a sense of duty or pay-back. I want to help Peeta because that's what we do, we protect each other. If the tables were turned, I know he would be doing everything to save me and bring me back. Even so, I haven't exactly done much good yet because I can't even rouse two words from him. Since planting the rose bushes in my sister's memory, Peeta has kept a significant distance from me. But this is the first time he's tried to visit me of his own accord, so surely that's a sign of improvement. I try not to get my hopes up too much.

Peeta is un-wrapping the loaf now and I watch as the heat leaks out into the air. He tears off the heel and hands it to me and the brief touching of our fingers is enough to make me reach out and touch his arm. He flinches but doesn't recoil from my hand, "You okay?" he asks, blue eyes registering some long-forgotten memory that this contact isn't so unusual for us. I don't answer his question because I can't give him a straight answer.

"I miss you," I find myself saying instead and then I wish I could take the words back because I know that this will only make him feel guilty and that's probably the last thing he should be feeling right now. I can understand his reasons behind keeping a distance but that doesn't mean I have to like it and right now, despite my fingertips registering the familiar heat of his body, I feel as though we are a million worlds away.

I know, because Haymitch has told me, that the flashbacks still happen. That he has to hold onto something to make sure he doesn't forget himself, to stop himself from doing something stupid. I can see now, the way his pupils dilate as he tries to starve off the instinct to kill or be killed. He is fighting it though, and I know the old Peeta will win so I don't move or speak or even breathe until his eyes have returned to normal. The worst part, I decide, isn't that the flashbacks happen, it's that no-one, not even me, can help him – not unless he asks, which he doesn't. He won't even play the real or not real game anymore. I know that he's only trying to protect me but I desperately wish that he would let me be his savior for once because if there is something I owe him more than anything else, its protection.

"Haymitch says you're having nightmares," Peeta says, sitting down opposite me at the table.

I start at the sudden break in the silence and mumble something incoherent because I don't want him to worry more than he has to. It turns out that I am not the only one getting my information from Haymitch. I'm glad in a way though, because it's nice to see some level of concern for me coming back. Neither of us has mentioned our last kiss, in the midst of a burning Capitol, but I have the feeling that it may have helped, if only a little. I forget my sickness and bite into the bread anyway, because I want an excuse not to have to elaborate.

Peeta looks down at the bread in his own hands and I can see that they still have a slight tremor. I almost reach out to touch him again, wanting to still the trembling but I stop halfway, outstretched across the table. Peeta looks at me haltingly for a second before he drops the bread and reaches out too, joining our hands and giving my fingers a gentle squeeze. "I've missed you," I say, feeling daring from this sudden improvement in our circumstances.

"I know," Peeta breaths, raising our hands and resting his forehead against my knuckles, "I miss you too".

The heat from his hands makes my skin tingle and I watch him as he closes his eyes, long blonde lashes casting shadows on his cheek bones. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I hope our contact is bringing some form of comfort to him as it is to me but I don't dare ask so I let him continue resting on our hands until he's ready to talk again. I am reminded of Finnick, after Annie had been taken to the Capitol. How lost and broken he had seemed then...I wonder if that's how we look right now. If someone were to look through the window would they be able to recognize the two broken souls sat clutching each other's fingers at my kitchen table.

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**Authors Note:** I must apologize to those who read this chapter and think it sounds familiar. It probably does because I uploaded it a few days ago on another profile but, due to an array of confusing and annoying issues involving broken links and the inability to upload anything, I have had to make this new profile and upload from here. Please review, as it is always amazing to see what you think and even where I could improve. Au Revoir!


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